Speakers Guidebook Text and

Reference 7th Edition OHair Test Bank

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 1. ______ is the process of gathering and analyzing information about audience members'
attributes and motivations with the explicit aim of preparing your speech in ways that
will be meaningful to them.

2. Maintaining a(n) ______ approach throughout the speech preparation process will help
you prepare a presentation that your audience will want to hear.

3. ______ are our general evaluations of people, ideas, objects, or events.

4. ______ are the statistical characteristics of a given population.

5. ______ stereotypes are oversimplified and often severely distorted ideas about the
innate nature of what it means to be male or female.

6. As opposed to questionnaires, surveys, and polls, a(n) ______ generally involves live
interaction with audience members or even just one knowledgeable representative of the
group you will address for the purpose of gathering information.

7. Written surveys, or ______, are designed to gather information from respondents.

8. Questions that measure the respondent's level of agreement or disagreement with

specific issues are called ______ questions.

9. Questions that allow respondents to elaborate as much as they wish are known as
______ questions.

10. Size of the audience, time and length of the speech, and the rhetorical situation are all
components of the speech ______.

Page 1
Answer Key
1. Audience analysis
2. audience-centered
3. Attitudes
4. Demographics
5. Gender
6. interview
7. questionnaires
8. scale
9. open-ended
10. setting

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After all, it was the little old woman who had Gay’s last conscious
thought. The girl started wide-awake from her first drowsing slipping
into unconsciousness, with her heart hammering again, and her wild
eyes roving the room for a whole frightened minute, before its
familiar peace lulled her into calm again.
That writhing, shadowy white-and-gray thing, in the white-and-gray
shadow of the hedge, and in the muffling softness of the curtaining
snow. Horse—big dog—child—no, it was a terrible yellow-faced old
woman! What a whining cry she had given! And how astonishing
later had been her recognition of Flora and Margret!
Well, whether she had walked home in the blizzard or gone up the
chimney on a broomstick was, after all, not Gay’s affair. But she had
most assuredly not been driven in to Keyport or Crowchester by
John! Gay thought that she was meeting this old forlorn, half-witted
thing again in the snowy lane—but this time David was with her....
 CHAPTER VIII
The rest of the house party was to her a thrilling, but too rapidly
flying, dream. The young people walked, rosy and whirled and
beaten and shouting with laughter, in the formidable ending of the
storm the next day; they ate ravenously, laughed a great deal, and
formed a whole new series of those special jokes and phrases that
come into being in every successful house party. A dozen small
incidents a day sent them into gales of mirth, and the recollection
and recounting of these same incidents rendered everyone
incoherent and hysterical at meals.
On the third day of the five the sun came out resplendent and
dazzling, if not very warm, and the sea turned a clear sapphire, with
jade-green lights where the chastened waves broke over the rocks.
The sky was pale, high, clear, and bright as enamel, and the snow
frozen hard underfoot. Skating was attempted in the old tennis-court;
there was snowballing, faces grew hot, and deluges of the soft and
silent cotton fell from low branches and spattered the girls’ coats and
the men’s shoulders. Maids were always sweeping the mud- and
snow-strewn side entry now, and hurrying away with wet wraps.
On the last night came the Christmas dance, when everybody knew
everybody else, and the mere hasty dinner beforehand and the
ecstasy of dressing after dinner were—Gabrielle thought—delight
enough. They had trimmed the house yesterday with holly and
greens, and even the Montallens had pushed chairs about with
hearty good-will and climbed on ladders to try out chandeliers.
Gabrielle told herself a hundred times that she must refuse to dance
—she did not really know how to dance well—she was the youngest,
anyway, and must make herself Sylvia’s right hand, as hostess.
But in the end, studying herself in the café-au-lait lace gown, which
came up almost to the round creamy column of her throat and down
almost to her ankles, and which had long, delicately fluted sleeves to
her very wrists and was altogether demure to the point of affectation,
Gay hoped that she would be asked to dance. Frank du Spain would
surely be kind if she did not dance very well.
“There will be a dozen prettier dresses to-night than this one!” she
told herself, going slowly downstairs and wishing in a panic that the
others had waited for her. Suppose they laughed at this dress—nuns
and graduate pupils as old as the Countess might not be supposed
to know much about clothes.
However, only a few guests had arrived, shy charming girls and boys
from the old mansions in and about Crowchester; the musicians
were tuning up deliciously, and the big floor shone inviting and bare.
Sylvia, being introduced and introducing with her mother’s and
David’s help, had time to say generously, “It’s charming! It’s just right
for you, Gay, absolutely suitable!” and Gay’s heart soared and her
cheeks warmed; she became the pleasantest and most efficient of
hostesses: piloting mothers and guardians to chairs, chatting simply
and merrily, and too absorbed in the delightful scene to know or care
what was happening to herself.
Aunt Flora was quite magnificent in plum colour; her nearest
approach in many years to clothing that was not mourning. The
Montallen girls were pretty in pink-and-silver and blue-and-silver
gauze. Sylvia was superb in a simple white brocade with a thread of
gold—her gold slippers made her look unusually tall—and there was
a gold spray of something that looked like thistledown in her hair.
Gabrielle was near enough to her sometimes to hear the pleasant
sweetness of her replies to neighbourly greetings.
“Indeed I remember the Robinsons! I shall be coming home very
soon now, you know, Doctor, and I certainly mean my good
neighbours to be part of the new life! Mrs. George, and this is never
Betty! Well, Betty——! No, but I shall really be home in June, and
then we’ll make some changes here, and see if we can’t make
Wastewater a little more comfortable!”
And now and then she turned to David, in a fashion that was sisterly,
yet not quite sisterly either, and with her lovely smile.
“David, I wonder if you’d call Maria’s or Daisy’s attention to those
candles? They’ll be dripping directly.” Or, “David, will you send Mrs.
Wilkinson’s coat upstairs? She doesn’t want to go up——”
Gabrielle was talking to a nice old couple, established expectantly at
one of the two card tables that had been provided, when the first
dance started. Sylvia was still in the receiving line beside her mother,
but David came up to the card table with another bridge-playing
elderly couple, and when the four had settled themselves and cut the
new pack, he stood smiling before Gay, with his tall, sleek black
head a little bent, and his smiling eyes on her, and his arms open.
“Come on, Gay!”
“Oh, but, David,” she said, flurried, “I don’t dance! At least, I know I
dance badly, for it’s been mostly with girls! Really—really I’d rather
not——”
David altered neither his position nor his expression.
“Come on!” he said. And Gay, with her face flushing exquisitely
under the warm, colourless skin, put herself into his arms. And this
was for her the wonderful moment of a wonderful evening; she liked
to remember that happy second, when the lights and music and
flowers and voices were all shining and flashing together in the
shabby old ballroom, and David had made her dance with him.
They moved off smoothly. There were a few other couples already
dancing, and presently David said: “I got the book, Miss Mansfield’s
book, with your dolls’-house story in it, and it is truly remarkable.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you read it for yourself!” Gay exclaimed.
“You gave it to me quite as effectively,” David commented, and was
still again. But after a few moments, while they were walking before
the first encore, he said: “You dance delightfully. Don’t have the
slightest hesitation about dancing!” And later, when they came up to
Sylvia and Aunt Flora, he repeated to them: “She dances perfectly,
of course. I’ve been trying her out. I hope we’ll hear no more of this
not-being-able-to-dance!”
Gay had a second’s uncomfortable impression that Sylvia was not
quite pleased; but as David immediately carried Sylvia off for the
second dance, there was no time to wonder at it. Gay dutifully took
Sylvia’s place beside her aunt, but almost all the guests had arrived
now; the girls and Aunt Flora had counted them, forty-three, a
hundred times, but now Flora whispered with a sort of agitated pride
that there were fifty-one, and, with the household, sixty-one. It was
many years since Wastewater had had a party of this size!
“Sylvia says that we must have a furnace put in,” sighed Flora, “and
that means tearing up floors—goodness knows what——”
Gay now plunged into the delights of her first real dance with all the
ecstasy of eighteen. She danced with any one and everyone, she
scarcely knew or cared with whom, but she was always conscious of
David, who, in his character as host, was obviously taking upon
himself the responsibility for whatever girl looked momentarily like a
wallflower, or whatever elderly woman needed an escort across the
room.
The glorious, crowded hours flew by, with laughter and compliments
and music, with icy brief drinks, and the exchanges of
congratulations.
“Isn’t it all wonderful! We’re having the most wonderful time!”
“Isn’t it! I’m so glad you’re liking it!”
Then presently there was an old-fashioned and lavish supper, with
bonbons and laughter, and Sylvia in a red-white-and-blue tissue cap
that made her look like a beautiful, proud young Liberty, and Gay
mischievous and delicious under a pomponned black-and-white
Pierrette hat. It was long after midnight, and the first good-byes were
being said, when Gay found herself sitting on the first step above the
dim landing with David.
“I discovered this place,” said David, panting, and wiping his
forehead frankly. “You can look down on them and they can’t see
you. Glory——! It’s warm.”
Gay sat sweetly cool and radiant beside him; her little slippers were
planted neatly in front of her, not a hair of the bright waves was
disordered, her skin had the cool dewy freshness of a child’s skin.
“Having a good time, Gay?”
“Oh, David!”
“What did you want to speak about?” he asked. For she had begged
him for a quiet word.
“It’s this,” Gay began. She was still talking rapidly and earnestly, five
minutes later, when Sylvia came tripping down behind them from the
dimly lighted upper hall, with some well-wrapped women following.
“Sorry to disturb you! David, I think perhaps you’d better come
down,” said Sylvia. “People are going.”
Gay and David stood up, and Gay realized then for the first time that
she had had her fingers gripped tightly on David’s arm, and for some
obscure reason felt a little self-conscious about it.
They all went downstairs, and there were no more confidences that
night. To Gay, who was tired out with felicity, the rest was all a blur.
She managed to hang up the lace gown carefully, but left her other
clothing and her slippers where they fell, and tumbled into bed with
her massed hair untouched, nearer sleep already than waking.
And the next day was confusing, too. Even the girls looked weary,
and the packing went on between yawning and laughing
reminiscences, and congratulations upon what had really been a
great success.
Outside were a low unfriendly sky and a strong wind across the
snow. The sea was rough and wild, bare branches bent and whipped
noisily about in the garden, and windows rattled. The house seemed
big and blank this morning, with fallen leaves and oddly disposed
furniture standing in the forlornly empty rooms that had looked so
bright and gay last night. John was in the house, with dry sacking
bagged over his boots as he moved palms about. But there was a
roaring fire in the airtight stove in the dining room, and another in the
downstairs sitting room, and the young persons, waiting for the
sleigh to take them to their train, gathered there.
David kept rather close to Gay, in an unobtrusive big-brotherly
manner, during the good-byes, and once he nodded to her and said
briefly: “All fixed. Don’t worry,” but if Sylvia saw these cryptic
indications she had no explanation of them until the following day.
She did note, she remembered afterward, that Frank du Spain’s
farewells to them all, and especially to David and Gay, were rather
odd; not quite pugnacious, not quite defiant, but with an odd touch of
some such quality. David enlightened her on the next afternoon,
when the family was alone again.
This was Christmas Day, and they had all gone in the sleigh to
Crowchester to church in the morning, and, although Wastewater
had hardly even now recovered from its unwonted festivities, there
had been the usual great turkey, icy red cranberry jelly, crackling
celery, and bubbling mince pies that indicated a fresh celebration.
This meal, served in the warm dining room at half-past two, after the
cold drive and wait, had reduced all the family to a state bordering
upon comfortable coma. Sylvia, sleepily declaring that she meant to
take a brisk walk, collapsed into an armchair before the fire
immediately after the mid-afternoon dinner. David, determining from
moment to moment to go upstairs and get into tramping clothes, took
a chair on the other side; Flora went up to her room, where she
indulged in the unheard-of relaxations of her wrapper and a nap on
the top of her stiff, cold bed, with a comforter over her; and Gay,
whose skin felt prickly and whose head heavy, and who had enjoyed
the mince pies and the chestnut dressing and the walnuts only too
well, wrapped herself up warmly, left a message with Maria, and
slipped quietly out of the side door.
John was going into Keyport at five to take Margret home after the
last of the Christmas dinner had been discussed in the kitchen;
Gabrielle would walk the three miles in the roaring wind, and he
could bring her home.
The gale tore at her gaily, whistled in her ears, stung her flushed
face into chilly bloom again; rushes of spray blew across the dune
road, and the sea boiled and tumbled beside her. Gulls were blown
overhead, balanced yet tipped sidewise in the wild airs. The wind
sang high above her.
Other pedestrians, similarly affected by Christmas cheer, were
walking bundled and blown and bent forward, along the roads, and
these and Gay exchanged joyous shouts of “Merry Christmas!” It
was good—it was good—the girl exulted, to be out on such a day!

Meanwhile Sylvia and David, left alone by the sitting-room fire, with
only the occasional dropping of a coal or the onslaught of wind
against the shutters to interrupt them, could have the first real talk
they had had since their arrival at Wastewater. David, stretched
luxuriously in his chair, was free to study her, as she sat erect and
beautiful in the pleasant mingling of gray afternoon light and warm
firelight. He had always had a definite feeling of admiration, loyalty,
affection for and confidence in Sylvia, and he felt it still. But for the
first time, in this past week, she had seemed oddly to take her place
down on the comfortable level of other human beings. She no longer
seemed—as she so long had seemed—a creature unique and apart,
a little more beautiful, more fortunate, more clever than the rest. Her
mother and he had watched her grow up—a bright little
conscientious girl with dark braids, a splendid twelve-year-old,
fifteen-year-old, meeting all the problems and the increasing
responsibilities of life so willingly, so conscientiously; prettier every
year, more responsive and satisfactory every year.
And then presently she had been recognized as Uncle Roger’s
heiress, and she was to own Wastewater one of these days, and the
very substantial properties that went with Wastewater. David had
initiated her, responsive and serious, into the secrets of her first
allowance, her checkbook, her accounts. Did she know that she
would be rich some day?
She had answered in Victoria’s grave little phrase: “I had not known I
was so near the throne!” And since that time, now several years ago,
David had more than once thought that the proud beautiful young
creature had really felt herself, in a certain sense, a queen, had
really been a queen in her own little circle. Quite without realizing it,
he had always seen a little halo, a little aura, about Sylvia.
Always—until now. David had always told himself that he dare not
ask Sylvia to be his wife, although she was the woman he knew best
and admired most in the world. It was an old habit of his to think of
her as the person he would have wished to marry had it been
possible to unite her youth and beauty and wealth to the small
income, the uncertain profession, and the ten years’ seniority of a
man who was to her a sort of older brother.
But he knew to-day that he could ask her. She had oddly seemed to
come into his zone during this holiday week; it was not that she was
less beautiful, less rich, less admirable. But she was—different, or he
was. She was just an extremely charming and fortunate girl of
twenty, who might love him as well as, perhaps better than, any
other man. She was splendidly high-principled and intelligent, but
even these qualities, at self-confident twenty, were not the surest
guides in the world. Oddly and unexpectedly enough, he had once or
twice experienced, just lately, a queer little pang of something like
pity for Sylvia. She impressed him as someone who had little to
learn, but much to experience.
Gay, on the other hand, was engagingly diffident and teachable. She
had a well-balanced little head, she had excellent judgment, she
played the piano nicely, spoke French perfectly, the Montallen girls
had said, and danced even better than she knew. But one felt that
there were no falls ahead of Gay, no humiliating descents from any
heights, simply because she had never scaled any heights. David
was not analytical enough to know that it was the sisterly little Gay
who had quite innocently and unconsciously shifted his attitude
toward Sylvia. Gay had told him of a delightful book that Sylvia called
“pretty thin.” Gay had said fervently, “Oh, thank you, David, you’ve
saved me!” when he had done her a small service yesterday. Gay
had quoted him, followed him with her eyes, consulted him, paid him
a score of compliments in her charming little-girl way; and Gay was
an exceptionally lovely young woman. Whatever her antecedents,
she was delightful, eager, receptive, unaffected, and like a nice child,
with her willing flying feet, her big eyes, her softly tumbled tawny
hair, and her husky, protestant, velvety little voice.
To-day, while he was idly thinking of what life would be when Sylvia
had taken possession of her inheritance, and had had her year or
two of independence, and then had agreed to be his wife, Sylvia
suddenly spoke of Gay.
“Have you any idea what she wants to do with herself, David?”
“Gay?”
Sylvia nodded.
“Mamma seems to feel nothing definite about it, and I couldn’t get
anything out of her. She said something vague about being an
actress! I suppose she’s at that age.”
And Sylvia smiled good-naturedly as she looked into the fire.
“She’s not happy here?” David asked, slowly.
“Yes, in a way I think she is. She’s young, of course, to try her wings,
and Mamma says she is really very conscientious about her
practising and languages. But of course this isn’t the place for her.”
“Isn’t?” David asked, looking up.
“No. In the first place, it’s too dull. In the second——”
“Why, there are some nice kids over at Crowchester,” David
suggested, “and she seems happy here. Then you’ll be home at
midsummer——”
“Yes, I know, David,” Sylvia said, with a sudden colour in her face.
“But at the same time I don’t feel that just idling here is quite the right
solution for Gay. And I think it my duty, in a way, to think out, for her,
what is the right solution,” added Sylvia, with a smile. “She’s
handsome—she has her mother’s most unfortunate experience back
of her, and—if she should marry even six or eight years from now, it
would surely be better to launch her first into some interesting and
absorbing line of work.”
“She may marry before that!” David said, with a significant half smile.
“She had her first offer, it appears, on the night of the dance, and she
was quite upset about it.”
“Her first offer!” Sylvia echoed, in stupefaction. “One of the
Crowchester boys?”
“No, I don’t think she knows any of them well. Aunt Flora doesn’t
encourage any neighbourliness exactly. No, it was young Du Spain,”
David said.
“Frank du Spain!”
“It would appear that it was love at first sight with him.”
Sylvia stared a moment; hot colour in her face.
“I don’t believe it!” she said, finally.
“Oh, it was honest and above-board enough. That was the very point
of her speaking to me as she did,” David assured her, half amused
and half serious. “It seems he spoke to her at the dance——”
“He must be twenty!” Sylvia broke in, impatiently.
“Twenty-four, he says. I don’t imagine,” David said, leniently, “that he
had any immediate hopes, or indeed plans. But he assured her that
he was free, and that his father was only too anxious to have him
settle down; he said that his mother would ask her to visit them—at
Lake Forest, I believe, this summer. He wanted a promise of some
sort—he was in an absolute fever of excitement and eagerness
when he left—almost wrenched my hand off!”
“David, you didn’t——But it’s all too absurd! You didn’t encourage
them in this sort of nonsense?”
“Them? My dear Sylvia, you couldn’t have disposed of an
unwelcome suitor more calmly yourself than Gay did!” said David.
“She told him, it appears, that she was very much honoured, and she
really liked him, but he please wasn’t to say anything more about it
for months, until after midsummer, in short. She only told me
because he insisted that somebody—anybody—be informed that he
never would change, and was in earnest, and all that. And he wants
to correspond, and she felt that she ought to speak to Aunt Flora
about that.”
“One wonders why she didn’t speak to Mamma in the first place,”
Sylvia said, slowly, remembering the farewells, and perhaps
unreasonably resenting a little Gay’s secret and Gay’s handling of it.
“She seems to want to dismiss the whole thing,” David explained. “I
only mention it as a suggestion that she may solve her own
problems in her own way one of these days.”
“And you really think she ought to live along here calmly, doing
nothing, and dependent upon other people?” Sylvia asked, with an
anxious and appealing little frown.
“Who, Gay?” said Flora Fleming, who had come downstairs and was
now being settled by David in her usual chair. “But there is no talk
about her going away, is there?” she asked, blinking through her
glasses from one face to another.
“Not immediately, Mamma dear,” Sylvia answered, with just a faint
hint of impatience in her voice that amused David with the realization
that he had never before seen Sylvia so human, and incidentally so
approachable. “But I suppose she will not stay here always. That
wouldn’t be fair to her or to you!”
“Oh, but what would you have her do, Sylvia?” demanded her
mother in alarm.
“Nothing definite, and don’t you two dear good people talk as if I
were an ogre!” Sylvia said, with a laugh. “What I had vaguely in mind
was some nice place—there are hundreds near the college—where
she could have some young life and at the same time, by courses or
special instruction, be fitting herself for her life work, whatever it’s to
be! That was my entire idea, I assure you.”
David took refuge in his usual thoughtful study of the fire; Aunt Flora
flung her yarn free with nervous fingers. Winter twilight was turning
the windowpanes opaque, and the room was warm and close.
“You mean that we should make her an allowance, Sylvia?” her
mother asked.
“Well—until she is on her own feet, of course. Pay her board, see
that she has the right clothes, and pocket money. But the quickest
way to be sure that she will take life seriously,” Sylvia said, “is not to
make it too easy for her!”
“But would you want her really to—to work, Sylvia?” demanded her
mother, as David, staring into the embers, with his locked hands
dropped between his knees, was still silent.
“Well, but, Mamma, wouldn’t you?” Sylvia countered. “With her
antecedents, perhaps inheriting that unfortunate nature of poor Aunt
Lily’s——”
“You never saw Aunt Lily!” David was upon the point of saying, good-
naturedly. But although Sylvia had indeed been only three or four
years old when frail, melancholy Aunt Lily had made the final
disappearance into a sanitarium that ended much later with her
death, he realized that Aunt Flora had talked frequently about her
and held his peace.
“Inheriting that unhappy nature from Aunt Lily,” pursued Sylvia, “and
inheriting goodness knows what from that casual father of hers—
who might, I suppose, turn up here any day and make trouble for all
of us—it does seem to me wisest to lay the basis of a normal, useful
life of her——”
“Her father’s dead!” Flora interrupted, with a sort of pain in her voice,
as Sylvia paused.
“You don’t know that, Mamma.”
“No, but if he isn’t,” David said, “he’s dead to us. He has built up a
new life somewhere that he is only too anxious to keep from our
knowledge. If he had been in trouble he would have appeared fast
enough!”
“Still, Sylvia,” said Flora, trembling, “I should wish—and I know David
would—that Gay should have some sort of allowance made for her,
always. I know your uncle—I know Roger would want her not to have
to worry about money—say, a hundred and fifty a month! Or two
hundred——”
“Do you mean just paid out of the estate?” Sylvia demanded, in
honest astonishment, and with a natural little resentment that her
plans for Gay should be so outdistanced by the others’ ideas. “But,
David—don’t you think that would be too ridiculous?” she asked,
anxiously turning toward him, after a surprised study of her mother’s
flushed face.
“I think we can arrange it very nicely, somehow,” David said,
soothingly. “No need to go into it now, for she will certainly stay here
with Aunt Flora until you come home, at midsummer. And in the
meantime she may either form her own plans, or perhaps,” he added
more lightly, “perhaps another Frank du Spain will come on the
scene, with better success!”
Flora, diverted, asked him his meaning, and Sylvia thought she took
a surprising amount of interest in the immature affair. Young Du
Spain had told her he would inherit something, Flora said, and he
seemed a nice, cheerful young fellow. It seemed a great pity that
they were not older—that something definite might not come of it!
“Even now,” Flora argued, knitting fast, “if he really got a position,
through his father—Gay will have something—I would certainly not
let her go to him entirely empty-handed,” she went on, half aloud, as
if reasoning with herself. David remembered suddenly that, after all,
he and she were administrators of the estate until mid-June; they
would solve Gay’s problem somehow before that; he hardly
imagined Sylvia afterward disputing or changing any arrangement
that they made about Gay.
Perhaps Sylvia remembered this, too, and decided that her only
policy was a waiting one, until her full inheritance and liberty should
be put into her hands. She fell into kindly desultory talk about Gay,
how pretty the girl had grown, and how nicely mannered she was.
But when Flora, who seemed nervous and disturbed, presently got
up and went out of the room, Sylvia said to David:
“What I really have in the back of my head is that Mamma and I shall
have a long holiday in Europe next winter. I’ve never been, and it
would be wonderful to see England in the fall, and Paris, with all the
chestnuts turning red, and then settle down somewhere for two or
three months, perhaps, on the Riviera. It would do her a world of
good, and she seems upset of late. I think Gay’s being here,” Sylvia
added, thoughtfully, looking straight up into David’s eyes now, as
they stood together before the hearth, “has roused old, sad
memories, and I feel that I—well, I owe Mamma this holiday, after
these years when I’ve seen so little of her! I’ll get all my new
responsibilities here straightened out as soon as I can, graduate,
perhaps get paperers and furnace men working here, under Hedda
and Trude, before we go, and then have a real vacation before we
come back,” she finished, smiling, “to be the Flemings of Wastewater
for the next forty or fifty years!”
“And of course there’s one more responsibility I hope you’ll decide to
assume, Sylvia,” David said, significantly, quite unexpectedly to
himself, but with his pleasant even voice and smile unchanged.
She understood him instantly and flushed rosily.
“Perhaps I will!” she answered, bravely.
“Be thinking it over?” he pursued.
Sylvia looked down at the pretty foot she had rested on the bright
brass and iron fire rods.
“It’s rather formidable,” she said, appealingly, looking up, “all the
business, the insurance and taxes and signatures—and my
graduation—and Wastewater, and the servants coming to me! I feel
—feel a little bit overwhelmed.”
“Of course you do!” David conceded, sympathetically.
“But I think,” Sylvia said, now with one hand on his shoulder and her
dark eyes raised seriously to his, “I think I’ve always had you in
mind, David—is that a very unwomanly thing to say? Give me a little
time to get my bearings.”
“All the time you want, dear!” David said, tenderly, as she paused.
For answer Sylvia raised her flushed and lovely face, and he kissed
her solemnly. Then the girl laughed a little excitedly and held him off
with both her hands linked in his, as she said:
“There, then! Is it ‘an understanding’?”
“It’s just what you wish, Sylvia.”
“Then that’s what I wish!” Sylvia answered, gaily. “Now let’s get our
coats on and race once or twice about the garden before it’s quite
dusk. Otherwise we sha’n’t be able to eat any of that cold turkey and
peach preserve dinner that Mamma’s probably fussing about now.”
But it was quite dark in the garden, and bitterly cold and windy, and
they had made only one turn when John rattled up to the side door
with the little car, from which Gay descended, weary, blown, but in
high spirits, hungry, comfortably weary, glad to be at home again.
David thought their all coming into the house together very homelike
and pleasant; the company was gone, but the family was gathered
together to discuss the remains of the big turkey and the memories
of the house party. He thought it would be charming to have this old
house home for them all, always; Gay was all the more attractive,
after all, because of the clouds and mists that hung over her birth
and parentage, and Sylvia would quickly get her bearings; she was
too sane and fine to be upset long even by her new importance.
Then the two girls, one so dark and the other so oddly fair, would
always be great friends, and even with Uncle Roger gone, and poor
old Tom gone, and so many other voices and faces gone for ever,
Wastewater would be a home for new Toms and Rogers, and again
a hospitable and imposing landmark in the countryside.
So musing, David thought with deep satisfaction of the future. Only a
few weeks before he had felt it would be an injustice to speak to
Sylvia, Sylvia the beauty, the heiress, barely of age. But Sylvia had
been brought into his own zone, in some strange manner, during
these Christmas holidays; for the first time in her life David had seen
her as perhaps needing affectionate guidance, sympathetic advice,
as indeed the young girl she really was, for all her superiorities.
College was all very well, thought David, for the nice, ordinary sort of
girl like Gwen or Laura Montallen; it helped them to form character, a
sense of balance and proportion, to make them into real women. But
Sylvia was different, she had been born balanced and conscientious
and intelligent and industrious, she needed softening now, and the
interruption of her own serene and unquestioned will. There was
beginning to be just a hint of the pedant, just a suggestion of the rut,
about her.
It was sweet to him to think that with his love for her, his knowledge
of her affairs, his happy familiarity here at Wastewater, he might
actually give to a marriage with Sylvia more than any other man was
apt to give. That confident, straightforward decisiveness of hers was
exactly what led so many fine women into ridiculous marriages. He
could imagine Sylvia seriously telling him that she was about to
marry some engaging penniless idler: “He’s a count, you know,
David—one of the finest families in Europe!” Or perhaps she would
not marry at all; she had said laughingly of some young admirer
months ago, “Possibly he heard of Uncle Roger’s money, David!”
That wouldn’t do, either. Sylvia, pretty and spectacled, and
entertaining other nice unmarried college women here twenty years
from now was a dreadful thought.
For the world’s opinion of the proverbial guardian wedding with the
heiress David cared nothing at all. He was largely indifferent to
money; the little that he had sufficed him comfortably; his chief
expenses were for canvases and oils, and Wastewater and Keyport
supplied him with subjects the year round. Less than a dozen close
friends, a city club, an occasional dress rehearsal or first night, and a
seat alone five times a season at the opera were enough for David,
and for the rest he liked his comfortable old painting clothes, the
panorama of the seasons steadily moving onward—and always,
behind and through and above the leisurely tenor of his ways,
Wastewater.
He roused from his reverie after supper to see Gay smiling at him
from the opposite chair.
“What are you thinking about, David? You looked so serious.”
“I was thinking very happy things about the future,” David answered,
exchanging just the fleeting shadow of a half smile with Sylvia.
“Look, Sylvia, I see a likeness to Uncle Roger in Gay now!” he
added, interestedly. “It’s stronger in this picture than in the one
downstairs!”
They all three looked up at the large portrait of Roger Fleming that
was above the mantel in Flora’s upstairs sitting room. Gay was just
below it, and she twisted her tawny head to look upward, too.
“I don’t see it!” Sylvia said, narrowing her eyes to scrutinize the
painted face and the living one. “But yes, I do, the mouths are
exactly alike!” she added, animatedly. “David, is mine like that?”
Flora was not in the room; they all glanced with instinctive caution at
the door now, as it rattled in a rising wind, perfectly aware that to her
nervous self-consciousness where all family discussions were
concerned even this much would be unwelcome.
But nobody came in, and Gay ended the debate about likenesses by
reminding them cheerfully:
“Turn, Flemynge, spin agayne;
The crossit line’s the kenter skein.”
 CHAPTER IX
The next morning David was surprised, and a little touched, to have
his aunt come up to him in the shadowy upper hall and embrace him
warmly. It was a long time since he had had such a kiss from Aunt
Flora.
“Sylvia’s just hinted it to me—I’m so glad, my dear, dear boy!” said
Flora. “She doesn’t want anything said of it—I understand! She
wants it just as if nothing had happened, until June—I understand!
But I must let you know that I am so delighted, David.”
And pressing his hands with a display of emotion very rare in her she
hurried on. But for this David might almost believe that he had
dreamed that little conversation with Sylvia in the firelight last night.
Sylvia really showed less feeling than her mother; Aunt Flora was
quite visibly beaming over the thought.
Yet Sylvia did show some; she was demure and sweet with David,
and on New Year’s Eve they had a few moments’ grave conversation
about the future.
“Perhaps there’ll be a young Mrs. Fleming here next year, Sylvia?”
“Oh, not quite so soon, I think. Promise me, promise me you won’t
hurry matters! But some day——” And she let her smooth, warm
hand rest in his until they were interrupted by her mother’s entrance
into the room.
Sylvia went back to college early on the day after New Year’s Day,
and David took her in to Boston, promising his aunt, however, that he
would return to Wastewater that night. And late in the afternoon,
before Sylvia went, she found an opportunity to give Gay a hint of
the state of affairs.
The two girls had managed to establish a real friendliness and were
merry and confidential and full of chatter together. Now Gay had
asked curiously, as in an ice-cold bedroom she watched Sylvia
packing her things:
“Sylvia, do you hate to go back?”
“Well, yes and no,” Sylvia said, thoughtfully. “In a way, I wish June
would hurry, and in another way I want to get every scrap of
sweetness out of my last college days. I shall be tremendously busy
when I get home, of course, for weeks and weeks, and then it’s
possible—I won’t say definitely, but it’s possible that Mamma and I
may go abroad for a few months, after that. I feel as if, in a way, I
owed Mamma a holiday.”
Gay’s face was radiant with sympathy.
“Oh, you will love it!” she said, enthusiastically, as she wrapped the
big comforter tightly about her and curled her feet up in the big
armchair. Sylvia, shuddering, blew upon her own fingers as she gave
a last look about the room.
“There, everything’s in!” she said. “Do let’s get downstairs and have
some tea as a celebration!” And to herself Sylvia added, “I wonder if
she realizes that I don’t plan to take her with us?”
But Gay was thinking: “She can’t care for David or she wouldn’t be
making plans to go away!” and in the queer, indefinable happiness
that came with this conviction, she could well afford to be indifferent
to her own plans for the summer.
When they were downstairs again and shuddering with cold, as the
heavenly warmth of the sitting room enveloped them Sylvia said:
“I should love to give Mamma a really happy time, because—next
winter—there may be changes——”
Gay, kneeling by the hearth and hammering a great smoking lump of
coal with a poker, felt salt in her mouth, and her heart sank like a
leaden weight. Sylvia’s serious yet happy tone was unmistakable.
The younger girl did not turn.
“You mean—you and David——?” she said, thickly, putting one arm
across her eyes as if the smoke had blinded her.